The House

He remodelled the house for a lacsome money,
The house that stands at the end of the dirty alley.
The cow shed overlooks the ornate main door shy,
Urchins play amidst cow dung and flies.
The house shines garishly with its white-tiled exterior,
It adds to his pride and makes him feel superior.
Tall and scrawny like a narrow piece of cake,
The house awaits to tumble at a legal inspection's wake.
Three years of savings he spent to rise above
The tacky poor neighbours with no taste or class.
The red-oxide flooring was ripped away with marble,
Friends and relatives sighed and appreciated his bauble.

Seven months and ten days it took to remodel the house;
The house that stands like his ego profuse.
Orphaned and poor, his childhood had lured
Him to own land and be secured.
Money cured his unassuring lack,
He didn't care for any law's smack.
Orange and purple filled the walls of his imagination,
Though unkempt articles didn't add to the reformation.
Hailing from the suburbs in far off East,
The  proud house had his identity fixed.
Teenager from a village, alone and abandoned;
He survived the city; a man ripened and hardened.

But fickle Fate with an unscrupulous smile,
Trapped him in a cancerous vice.
Metabolic dysfunction and a malignant liver,
Rocked his world, his forehead burnt with fever.
Anxious and agitated, and distraught with fear,
His wife strived to fetch him every possible elixir.
Money escaped like a mirage in desert;
Her aching tears bought no relief from Fate pervert.
Addled and hapless, his wife begged for help
From friends and relatives who sighed and sidestepped.

That Ego and Pride—trifles to life;
That money humbles the archest brows;
That perfect luxury equals no love;
Dawned on him, and she thought thereof
To sell the house; the one that stood
In the dingiest and shabbiest neighbourhood.
The house now snuggles a tacky poor family,
Who saved another with their classless money.

If money be the grave, and ego be the dirt,
Let Life be the wind that blows over us.